


The Crossroads Diner

by RisenHunterFallenAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, BAMF Castiel, Blizzards & Snowstorms, College Student Castiel, College Student Dean, Confident Castiel, Dean Loves Pie, Diners, Fluff, Flustered Dean, Human Castiel, Impala, Implied Sexual Content, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pie, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisenHunterFallenAngel/pseuds/RisenHunterFallenAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds himself working the graveyard shift at the Crossroads Diner while all the other inhabitants of his college town are tucked away in their homes, safe from the blizzard ravaging the area. With only a jukebox and the promise of a paycheck as company, he prepares for the most agonizingly boring night of his life. As the hours whittle away, Dean becomes increasingly desperate for anything remotely stimulating to occur and engage his lonely, tired self. </p><p>Reprieve ultimately arrives, seeking refuge from the snowstorm. He's six feet tall, dressed in leather, and hot as Hell. </p><p>Dean didn't know salvation could look so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crossroads Diner

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for giving this fic a read. I've been on a BAMF!Cas kick recently and thought I'd try my hand it writing him, which isn't something I've ever done before, so I'd really appreciate your feedback. Please consider letting me know what you think - comments make my day. Enjoy!

The jukebox, upon scratching out the final measure of  _ HELP!,  _ flickers into insipid silence, the decrescendo of The Beatles’ harmonies engulfing the diner in an inimicable stillness.  _ Are You Lonesome Tonight?  _ starts up several moments later, which, given the very nature of the tune, does little to animate the empty red pleather booths of the cavernous space. Graveyard shifts are never incredibly stimulating, of course, but this being a college town means there’s rarely a shortage of shitfaced students in need of a greasy spoon when the munchies hit them at odd ends of the night. The Crossroads Diner, therefore, open until two in the morning, tends to get a decent number of late-night visitors. On this occasion, however, there is not a soul in sight.

A winter storm is ravaging the East coast, and New England is certainly bearing the brunt of its rage. Classes have been cancelled for the week, most businesses are closed, and all students have been advised to remain in their dorms or apartments. Dean  _ would  _ be adhering to the suggested safety protocols were he not at work. Crowley, the son of a bitch, insisted that his Crossroads remained in function through it all, though he himself would not be working until the storm passed. Dean valued his continued employment enough to not make an attempt on Crowley's life, but he did make a snide remark about how nobody was going to risk their lives to eat bargain burgers in the unconvincing atmosphere of the ‘60s revivalist diner. 

Crowley give him a double shift in retaliation.

Not only that, but he gave the rest of his employees the final shifts off. Dean had made many pathetic pleas to Jo, Ash, and Benny, begging them to stick around and keep him company, but they all vehemently refused. After all, they each had significant others with whom they planned to brave the onslaught of snow, sheltered in the safety of blankets and mattresses, and they weren’t about to pass up on that chance for the sake of seven unpaid hours at the Crossroads. Dean typically found that being the only single employee in his workplace had its perks (namely in the form of higher tips from shamelessly schmoozing customers), but today, being a bachelor decidedly put him at a disadvantage. Despite his efforts, he found himself holding down the fort alone, with no prospect of anyone to cook for, wait on, or talk with. 

The early evening, at least, had remained unaffected by the blizzard. There was a lapse in the snowfall, so 7 o’clock brought an unexpected crowd of people who thought to get a quick bite of “cheap and cheerful” before retreating to their homes and hibernating through the imminent, forecasted danger. Dean’s last table -occupied by some asshole frat boys who didn’t tip and left the floor covered in wads of chewed gum and spilled drinks- finished up around 9 o’clock, and he’s been without company ever since. He found a little comfort in the knowledge that the day’s constant, dreary smattering of flakes evolved into a deluge of fucking biblical proportions the moment they stepped out the doors, so at least they got some kind of punishment for being little shits. 

Miffed as he was for having been skimped, however, he was almost more bothered by the fact that they hadn’t just trashed the whole place. Spending five hours cleaning would’ve been a helluva lot more interesting than leaning against the counter drowsily, attempting napkin origami and eyeing the final slice of apple pie. But alas, such was not the case. Thus, Dean resigned himself to his fate of enduring a lonely evening, and queued up all the jukebox’s music to keep himself entertained. 

Come 10 o'clock, his self-restraint dwindled past nonexistence and into the threshold of gluttony when he decided to help himself to that final slice of pie, putting it in a box to take home.

When 11 o’clock struck, he brewed himself a fresh pot of coffee, an only partially-successful attempt to perk himself up and resist nodding off. 

With the arrival of the new day came his resolve to lock up shop and go home early if nobody showed up within the hour. 

At 1 o’clock, he lost his nerve. It’s unlikely that Crowley would have found out if he skipped the end of his shift, but he’s a scary dude, and Dean was none too keen to test that theory. Instead, he again lined up the tunes of the jukebox, bracing himself for the final stretch. 

Now, at 2 in the morning, he’s  _ finally _ free to leave. As Elvis croons about his woeful solitude, Dean anticipates escaping his, locking up the register with a sigh of a relief as the least eventful evening of his life finally draws to a close. His lips pull into a small smile - after all, he’s only a quick drive home from a few beers, a slice of pie, and the half-season of  _ Dr. Sexy _ he has yet to watch. 

Simultaneously, however, the door opens. 

A howling gale accompanies the intrusion, sucking the warmth out of the Crossroads and replacing it with an oppressive, biting cold. There’s a young man in the doorway, his motionless figure a stark contrast to the ceaselessly swirling snow behind him. The door swings to a close, muffling the calamity of clattering hail and restoring heat to the diner. There’s another pause in the music as the jukebox changes discs, and Dean almost scowls at the visitor as bitter resentment begins to encroach into his mind. He feels half-inclined to tell the man that he’s locking up for the night. Somehow, he bites his tongue. 

The guy looks haggard: hair mussed, dark circles visible under his eyes even in the dim lightning, melted snow trailing down his leather jacket into a puddle at his feet. Dean can’t possibly turn this guy away, not when he slouches a little, fragile and drawn. Dean senses his brief spell of anger ebb away, and smiles at the newcomer as enthusiastically as he can, though his own muscles ache from exhaustion. He finally has company -finally has something to do- so it doesn’t matter much to him if he has to stick around for a little while longer. He is saved.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, picking up a menu from below the register. He then motions to the barstool across the counter from where he stands, “Take a seat.” 

The man does so, walking swiftly across the checkerboard floor to the stool, trailing several drops of water in his wake. He shoulders off his sopping wet jacket and places it gingerly on the stool to his right, exposing his dry, white henley. There’s a light directly above the counter, illuminating the stranger, and from this vantage, Dean finds he has to re-evaluate his previous assertion. Sure, the guy looks a little worse for wear for having been out in the goddamn snowpocalypse, but he is far from fragile. He’s not all broad chest and bulging muscles like Dean himself is, but the way the fabric of his shirt tightens when he folds his arms on the table displays his toned biceps and his taut, sturdy chest. There’s a smattering of melting snowflakes dusting the dips of his collarbones, visible where the shirt’s collar droops a little from being unbuttoned. Dean draws his eyes away from them with a touch of reluctance to address the man again. “What can I do for you?” he asks.  

He speaks before his gaze reaches the man’s face, before he notices the clean lines of his sleek undercut; the strong angles of his sharp, stubbled jaw; the curve of his full, pink lips; or the depthless, tantalizing infinity in the iridescent sapphires of his eyes. Dean’s senses are entirely overwhelmed by the beauty of him, and he can do nothing but hold the man’s gaze in awe and breathless longing. 

“A coffee, please,” the man replies with a deep, husky voice, “and erm….” he gives Dean a once over, gaze tracing over his body carefully. He licks his lips, perhaps absent-mindedly, and Dean swallows thickly as his throat goes dry. “Could I have the menu, Dean?” the man concludes.

Dean blinks dumbly for several seconds before recalling that there's a nametag pinned to his t-shirt. Then he realizes that he’s still clutching the laminated sheet and snaps into action, shaking his head and laughing nervously as he places it on the counter. “I’m sorry….” He begins, then trails off, waiting for the man to introduce himself. 

“Castiel,” he supplies, pulling a lighter and a pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket. “Do you mind?”

Dean’s so fixated on the subtle, deft movements of  _ Castiel's _  fingers as he twirls a cigarette around them that for several seconds, he forgets to reply. “I…. go ahead. Sorry, man, I uh…. it’s been a long night.”

The corner of Castiel’s lips twitch into a small, coy smile. He places the cigarette between them. “I can tell,” he says, punctuating the phrase with the flick of his lighter.

Dean laughs at the blunt reply, pouring some coffee into a mug. “Yeah, well, no offence, but you don’t look 100% either. What’d you do, fight your way out of purgatory?” He slides the mug across the counter, and narrowly avoids mentioning that even wrecked as he looks, Castiel is one handsome son of a bitch. 

That evokes a chuckle from Castiel, warm and smokey, and Dean can’t stop himself from wondering what other noises that throat is capable of making. “Frankly? I might have prefered that,” he replies, tapping his cigarette against the lip of the ashtray with one hand, the other clutching at hot ceramic. He leans forward, willing the hot wisps of steam from his coffee to rise and warm him further. “I was sexiled,” he adds, after an uncertain beat, as though trying out the term for the first time. And, well, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if there was truth to that, because it’s evident to him that those lips were crafted for better things than cheap slang and shitty coffee.

“That’s rough, man,” Dean empathizes, “I’ve had many roommates do the same to me.” He refrains from adding that more often than not, though, it’s he who does the sexiling. 

Castiel takes another deep pull from his cigarette. “It wouldn’t have bothered me were it not for the fact that I rather wanted a good fuck tonight.”

Dean is eternally grateful that he isn’t drinking his own coffee, because there’s absolutely no chance he wouldn’t have choked on it. The guy’s voice is dangerous enough - the thought of him naked and sweaty and writhing is almost lethal. “And that didn’t work out?” Dean queries, doing all he can to avoid squeaking his reply. 

Evidently he’s not quite successful, because Castiel’s eyebrows arch and his lips quirk into a discreet smirk. “Perhaps you haven’t been informed,” he says, exhaling smoke, “but there’s a rather significant winter storm hitting the area - all the bars and clubs in town are closed.”

Dean blushes, abashed. “Right. Obviously.” He tries for a light, dismissive chuckle but releases an awkward, nervous sputter instead. “I s’pose I forgot that the rest of the town was on lockdown, what with....” he gestures to the diner’s illuminated “WELCOME” signs. 

There corner of Castiel’s mouth carry faint traces of an amused smile. “This establishment is certainly quite the anomaly,” he comments, “not many eateries are open at this hour, even in more favorable weather conditions.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, you came to the right place,” he adds, after a pause. He doesn’t know if Castiel grasps that the thought has little correlation to the conversation at hand. 

Evidently he does, for he holds Dean’s gaze, unfaltering. “Yes, I rather think I did,” he replies. 

Then he winks. 

Dean’s brain shorts out. 

He can no longer register the words Castiel is speaking, nor the thunderous hail, nor the music tracks playing in the background. He can’t focus on anything - not while he’s still processing what was perhaps the singularly most arousing sight he’s ever had the good fortune of witnessing.

In fact, Castiel has to grip Dean’s arm to pull him out of the void of his mind. He retracts the touch immediately upon enticing his attention, but Dean’s flesh burns hot where the hand had rested. “Sorry, man. What did you say?” he asks, voice raw. He doesn’t know what direction Castiel has steered the conversation, nor how long he’s been unresponsive. What he is conscious of, however, upon blinking into awareness, is that he’s been staring at Castiel’s lips rather blatantly for the duration of his spell of incoherence. 

There’s a self-satisfied, knowing grin on those lips and a mischievous glint in Castiel’s eyes when he replies. “I said: I’ve decided what I want.” His words are slow, deliberate, as he flicks his cigarette butt into the ashtray.

And now Dean can hear everything, from the electrical whirring of the fluorescent lights to the blood rushing in his ears to his own goddamn heartbeat, hard and heavy in his chest. “Oh?” He swallows, “and what would that be?”

Castiel leans forward, and on instinct Dean does, too. There’s only about five inches between them now. Without tearing his gaze away from Dean’s, Castiel points to the dessert portion of the menu, eyes wide with enthusiasm and smirk fixed firmly on his face. “Apple Pie,” he breathes, tendrils of smoke from the release of his last drag curling between them.  

Fuck. 

Dean’s only known the guy for all of 40 minutes, but it’s already painfully evident that Castiel is going to be his undoing. He knows this not on account of the tension escalating between them, nor because of their unfaltering eye contact, nor because neither of them have made an effort to distance themselves from one another, but because Dean is fully prepared to give him what he asked for. In his 21 years of life, there are two things Dean has never willingly done: 1) ridden shotgun in his own car; and 2) sacrificed his pie for someone. Yet here he is, whispering, “Sure thing, Cas,” without hesitation, the affirmation and the nickname sliding off his tongue seamlessly. 

He reluctantly moves away from the counter -away from Cas- to acquire the pie he’d boxed up for himself. He transfers it to a plate, which he then sets on the countertop alongside a fork.

Cas digs in immediately, making some dirty, pleased noises with every bite. 

Dean is quite certain that he’s doing it deliberately. 

His gaze, heavy with longing, flicks incessantly between the pie and the frankly outrageous way Cas’s tongue swirls around the prongs of the fork. Castiel must feel some kind of remorse for being a goddamn tease, because after a minute, he asks: “Dean, would you like some pie?”

Dean’s not quite sure how he has retained the capacity to speak -never mind joke- but his reply is quick and confident. “Do you usually share desserts with strangers, Cas? C’mon, ask a guy out, first.”

“Alright.” Cas says, setting down his fork. “What time do you get off work?”

Dean did not expect Cas to roll with this, but he’s pretty damn pleased that he did. “About an hour ago,” he admits, without realizing. A blush of embarrassment creeps up his neck when he registers his revelation. 

That particular piece of information seems to catch Castiel off guard, though he does manage to suppress the look of astonishment that surfaces on his face, replacing it with one of smoldering determination. “Can I take you out, Dean?”

Dean barely avoids responding with a plea. “I’d like that, Cas,” he says. “Where d’you have in mind?”

Cas shrugs with an air of indifference, but he's beaming. “Just a little diner in town. It’s nothing too extravagant, but the waiters are hot and they have incredible pie.” 

Dean leans his elbow on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “Oh, is that so? Well when do you wanna take me?” 

Cas makes a big show of checking his watch and pretending to mull over his answer. “About an hour ago,” he says, finally. 

Dean doesn't miss a beat. “Alright, Cas. It’s a date.”

Castiel picks up his fork again, a morsel of pie already skewered on the end of it. “I believe I promised dessert, Dean. Would you like some?” He winks again, and Dean’s heartbeat accelerates to a perilous rate. “I’m paying.”

Dean acquiesces this time. He grabs a fork for himself and tucks in, humming contentedly at the perfectly flaky consistency of the crust. “You know,” he says, between bites, “I'm willing to bet that with a little convincing, the waiter would let you have the pie free of charge.” 

Cas opens his mouth, preparing himself to concoct some kind of persuasive argument, but changes his mind after a few heartbeats of careful consideration. With a sly grin, Cas’s fork clatters to the floor. He grabs Dean’s jaw and pulls him forward, smashing their mouths together. Dean responds with a shuddering hum of contentment. Cas wastes no time before nipping and licking at the seam of Dean’s lips, willing them to part and tangling their tongues the moment they do. The counter between them hinders their ability to draw one another any closer, so they make do with grappling at each other’s shirts and fisting handfuls of hair, noses brushing and fumbling as they try to establish a rhythm. Cas’s tongue tastes of cinnamon and cigarettes, which isn't a combination Dean would've imagined liking, but now he's fucking sighing into it, and whimpers a plea when Castiel attempts to break away. He appeases Dean, extending the kiss ephemerally, angling his jaw to deepen it for a final, indulgent moment before pulling back with a gentle tug to Dean’s bottom lip. “Would you say the waiter is sufficiently convinced?” he asks, words hoarse. 

Dean can only nod. Castiel’s pupils are dilated, his lips swollen and chapped, and his hair is in an even more impressive state of disarray now than when he had arrived, tangled tufts of it sticking out in odd directions. Dean desperately needs to know just how messy it can get. “You make a compelling argument,” he whispers, finding conviction along with his voice, “I would say that if you let him take you home right now, you could convince him of more or less anything.” 

“So take me home with you, Dean,” Castiel simpers. Dean just nods, and he is faintly aware that  _ A Hard Day’s Night _ is winding to an end on the jukebox. He fishes his keys out of his pockets as they toss on their jackets, then ushers Cas out of the diner and through the tempestuous parking lot to his car.

They don’t make it to Dean’s place for a long while.

They start by exchanging lazy, sloppy kisses as they wait for the Impala’s heating to kick in, but the six feet of rugged, gorgeous savior straddling Dean rapidly becomes impatient, and blows him right there in the front seat. He evidently did not consider that the aftermath would leave Dean spent and useless, only prolonging the duration of their stay in the parking lot, because there’s no way Dean can recover use of his faculties immediately after that kind of an experience. After several, blissful minutes of Cas nipping insistently at his jaw, intermittently describing all manner of filthy things he’d do if Dean would “please start driving the damn car because he’s been wanting a good fuck all day”, a phrase passes Dean’s lips he would never have anticipated speaking. Never mind the surprise that his willingness to share pie had evoked -  _ this _ was beyond unfathomable. He could blame it on the high of orgasm, or even retract the offer, but he finds he doesn’t want to do either. Cas couldn’t possibly understand the implications of the offer extended to him -Hell, Dean isn’t entirely sure he understands them either-  but he will, someday. A few years down the line, when they come to know one another more acutely than they know themselves, Castiel will understand that it's through gestures like this that Dean Winchester communicates how profoundly he loves someone. “Take the wheel, Cas,” he says, “I’ll help with directions.”


End file.
